Breaking Free Of The Iron Curtain

Saturday Special

A Bittersweet Return To East German Home

On June 15, 1991, I was in Germany, boarding a train to take me back to what had been East Germany, the so-called German Democratic Republic. I had not seen my hometown in more than 30 years.

As the train passed through the former border town of Helmstedt, I could see the fortifications, the death strip, the watchtowers, the searchlights - symbols of the Iron Curtain, which until recently helped a ruthless regime to imprison its people.

I felt an immense sorrow at the sight of these remnants of a defunct system, because I thought of the victims of communism, of the people who had been shot and killed at this border and of the families it had divided since 1945.

As the train brought me closer to home, I suddenly saw hundreds of wild red poppy flowers in the fields welcoming me back to my childhood and to thoughts and memories of the past.

I suddenly remembered the last few weeks of the war, when my hometown was destroyed. I remembered the American soldiers leaving after one week of occupation and the Russians moving in, the hunger, the ruins and growing up under the East German communist system.

I remembered how the secret police had burst into our house in the middle of the night, searched it and had taken my brother prisoner, how I secretly had watched political prisoners being transferred to a freight train, how people had disappeared.

Three of my brothers had escaped within three years. My family was considered an ''enemy of the republic,'' because you were guilty if you knew of someone escaping and failed to stop him. My father had to endure countless interrogations concerning my brothers' escapes. There were rumors that measures would be taken to stop all would-be refugees.

And then, suddenly, I was told by my parents that, within hours, the rest of the family would escape to West Berlin. It was June 15, 1957. We were giving up everything for one word: freedom. No goodbyes, no mementos, no favorite things to take along - just the clothes on our backs.

An elevated train went from the outskirts of East Berlin, where we lived, into the center of the city. In between, the train would also stop at several West Berlin stations. Before these stops, East German border police and Russian soldiers checked our papers. One by one, we got off at the West Berlin Station, and luckily we did not alert the authorities or arouse suspicion. We were free! Then it was off to the Marienfelde Refugee Camp, where we spent the rest of the summer, eventually making it to West Germany.

And now, 34 years to the day, I was going home. I had never thought I would see my hometown again. Like most Germans, I had totally given up the idea that Germany could ever be reunited. But it did happen in our lifetime.

I had been warned not to go back, that I would be terribly disappointed and upset. Since I had been a teen-ager when we escaped, it would probably be better to keep my memories intact. But I felt I had to go home to see old friends and relatives and to walk the streets of my childhood again. It was time to celebrate freedom.

Suddenly, the train stopped. I was finally home. It was such an emotional experience that tears streamed down my face.

I walked for hours through my beloved hometown. There were strange buildings now where my mind knew only ruins. I went back to the house where we lived after the war, to my schools and to the ruins of the castle and the churches.

Yes, the streets seemed much shorter and the buildings were much smaller than I remembered; the ruins looked more eerie and sadder. All in all, the city was a picture of neglect and abandonment. But the people made up for everything: friends welcoming me with open arms, old neighbors inviting me into our former home, relatives I had not seen in more than 30 years assuring me I looked just the same and had not changed at all!

Strangers walked up to me, because they remembered me and my family. Everybody was voicing their joy at finally being free.

But there was also an underlying anger regarding the criminal acts of the secret police and the party and the worry about the future. People were talking openly about politics, and the first signs of private enterprise could be seen: a freshly painted house, a new roof, a little pub.

Everywhere, one could sense the joy of the newfound freedom. I vowed to return next year. By going back, I found out, you can go home again.